


The Tenth Arrow

by In_a_Quandary



Category: Final Fantasy XIII, Final Fantasy XIII Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Camaraderie, Gen, Psychological Drama, Survival Horror, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 03:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7784962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_a_Quandary/pseuds/In_a_Quandary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their Cie’th countdown finally approaches its end. They have run out of time. In-game AU. Ensemble cast, Lightning-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I – Onset

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a horror story. Five years ago, I stumbled across this story prompt at, of all places, the ffxiii kink memes on livejournal. Although the prompt had already been filled by another author, the resulting story lacked enough detail and intensity for my taste, so I decided to expand on the idea myself.

xxx

**Part I – Onset**

xxx

It began as voices in her head.

When it first happened, she was too busy to take notice. She and Hope were locked in battle against a Feral Behemoth in the Gapra Whitewood – a battle, she knew from experience, that few escaped alive. As blood pounded a desperate staccato in her ears, she caught snatches of murmuring, faint and indistinct. They lasted for a second and were forgotten in the next; the Behemoth had just aimed two hundred pounds of paw at her torso, forcing her to leap out of the way or else face disembowelment. By some stroke of fortune, the move brought her underneath the beast’s unprotected flank. She wasted no time, thrusting her gunblade into the soft flesh and spraying the ground with crimson.

The second time, she passed off as an auditory hallucination. Psychotic breaks were not uncommon when sleep-deprived. Between keeping watch at night and relentless marching in the day, she had gotten no more than four hours rest since the events of the Purge. No sooner had they crossed the threshold of Hope’s home in Palumpolum that the voices erupted, a cacophony of rage and despair that so closely matched her own seething, neglected feelings. Her stagger – a momentary give of the knee – earned no suspicion; the others simply thought her fatigued from hauling Snow’s dead weight, and helped her up.

When it occurred for the third time, she could no longer deny that it was happening. She and the others – they comprised a ragtag team of six, now – were onboard the death trap better known as the Fifth Ark, strength and patience worn thin by the endless tide of monsters. The voices rose as a mournful chorus this time, their low, tuneless wails echoing through her body in waves of white-hot pain. She supposed she had blacked out then. When awareness returned, she was lying on the ground, Hope’s clammy hands grasping her own. The inevitable questions were headed off with a terse “tired”; how could she admit to this new madness when she had yet to acknowledge it herself?

For madness it was indeed – the Cie’th madness. As each day – hour, minute, second – that passed while her Focus remained incomplete, she would descend further into it. Thoughts devolved, losing the blade edge of higher cognition and sublimating into raw, primal instinct. Battles became near-uncontrollable frenzies of bloodlust, and nightmares consumed what little sleep she had. Still the voices came, mutters and blood-curdling shrieks that sank deeper and deeper into her subconscious until she could no longer tell where they ended and she began.

She spoke nothing of it to anyone. Mental instability was a difficult topic to discuss under normal circumstances, let alone theirs. However likely it was that her comrades suffered the same plight – their l’Cie brands were advancing at the same rate, after all – she could not bring herself to breach the silence that their natural aversion to the subject caused. Already she could see the fear in their eyes, fear that they were hurtling all too fast down the path of imminent doom. To declare that she, their fierce, unshakable leader, was becoming insane – becoming _Cie’th_ – would surely snap the thread that held their fragile morale together.

No, better that she suffered in silence.

Her resolve lasted all of three days. Then it shattered against the edge of a quiet, whispered admission.

Night had just fallen upon the Vallis Media, prompting the group to ditch exploration in favour of setting up camp. After dinner (a sorry affair of leftover rations and unripe fruit) and conversation (a sorrier attempt at humour), they huddled around the campfire in various states of repose. She, who had volunteered first watch, was sitting on a boulder, her hand mechanically running a whetting stone against her gunblade. On the ground, Vanille had curled into Fang’s side, with the older woman’s arm thrown protectively over her. Sazh had settled between two ferns, a smooth slab of rock as his makeshift pillow, and Snow was slumped against a tree trunk, his fingers wrapped tight around Serah’s crystal tear even as he snored away.

And Hope—

Unlike the others, the teenager was wide-awake. He seemed to be deep in thought, his gaze fixed on the crackling hearth. Arms wrapped around knees in the fetal position, he looked every bit the vulnerable child, scrawny limbs and fragile sensibilities and all. The image was further reinforced when he shuddered and hugged himself still tighter, his thoughts having taken a turn for the worse.

Seeing him like this caused an ache to flare up behind her breastbone. In the midst of their troubles, it was easy to forget just how young he was. She had not been gentle with him in the beginning of their journey together – not that their situation could afford coddling – and still wouldn’t be otherwise, given a repeat. Nevertheless, she regretted what he’d endured at her hands. It was like raising Serah all over again – too much practicality, too little affection.

_Serah…_

Sighing, she set aside her gunblade and crossed the small distance between her protégé and herself. He startled when she laid a hand on his shoulder. Had he not sensed her approach?

Wintergreen eyes caught her own, lighting up in recognition. “Oh, it’s just _you_ , Light.” The tension in his shoulders dissipated.

 _Who else could he expecting?_ “It’s late,” she murmured. “You should get some rest.”

“Yeah. I will, in a bit.”

Satisfied with his response, she withdrew her hand and turned around, intending to resume her seat. She managed all but two steps before she heard his voice again, meek and hesitant.

“Umm Light, can I… tell you something?”

She turned back. “What is it?”

“I…” he started, but caught himself, seeming to think better of his words. “Oh, never mind. You’re not gonna believe me anyway.”

She returned to his side, crouching before him. “ _Hope_.” His name came out in a gentle plea. “You can trust me.”

“I know.” He looked up at her, eyes equally pleading – for her to _understand_. “I trust you – more than anything. But that doesn’t make it any easier to say.”

“Because I won’t believe you?” she echoed his words from several seconds ago.

He sighed, a world-weary sound that did not belong on a fourteen-year-old. “I don’t want to believe it myself.”

She sat down beside him, her knee bumping against his. “Hope, whatever it is, we’ll face it together. You and I, we’re partners.”

Hearing the proclamation she made to him a week – only a week? It seemed like an eternity – ago in the Gapra Whitewood had a calming effect on him. “Alright,” he relented. “But please Light, promise me you won’t tell the others—”

“I won’t.”

“Okay. _Okay_.” He took a deep breath to steady himself. “The thing is… I think I’m going _mad_.” He spoke the last word in an almost inaudible whisper. 

She made no reply to that, causing him to fix wild eyes onto her, searching her expression as though expecting judgment. Only when she gave him an encouraging nod did he continue, the words sounding like they were dragged out of him against his will.

“I keep… hearing these voices. They’re not my thoughts, I can tell. They’re more like cries than words, and there’s always some kind of emotion behind them, like anger or sadness. Or violence. Sometimes, in battle, they get really loud and—” He cut himself off and faced away from her, a ragged noise escaping his throat. “Just listen to what I’m saying!” He clutched his face in his hands. “I really _am_ going mad, aren’t I?”

Having subsided to a dull throb, the earlier ache in her heart now blazed fire-bright. Although admitting to madness would mean defeat – that she no longer fought against, but rather _accepted_ this horrifying fact as reality – it could not be worse than seeing this boy so torn, so wretched.

“Hope,” she spoke in as gentle a tone as she could muster, drawing one of his hands from his face into the cradle of her own. “If you are—” she could not help but hesitate over the words, “— _going mad_ as you say, then I’m no different. I can hear the voices too.”

He snapped back towards her. “You – you can?” Relief was evident in the wet shimmer of his eyes. “I thought I was the only one.”

He sounded so small and young that she wanted to fold him into her embrace, whispering tender nothings in his ear until his worries dissolved into mist. Reigning in the impulse, she contended herself with a squeeze of his palm instead. He squeezed back.

They passed the next minute in silence, both drawing comfort from their united suffering. Then Hope piped up, “Do you think the others can hear them, too? That it’s part of being l’Cie?”

She nodded rather than spoke the affirmative. It wouldn't do any good to verbalise her fear – that hearing voices wasn’t about being l’Cie so much as their progress into the stage beyond. Her flimsy attempt at prevarication was subverted, however. Smart kid that he was, Hope came to that realisation in the next instant.

“We’re already… _changing_ , aren’t we? Into Cie’th?”

The sound of the night insects’ chirping was the only reply.


	2. Part II - Emergence

xxx

**Part II – Emergence**

xxx

The next sign arrived in the crystallisation of her flesh.

It was a gradual process, the transformation of smooth, pink skin into ugly, scaled disfigurations. Among the benefits that came with being l’Cie were Cure magic and an accelerated healing rate, both of which Lightning exploited to no end. Why ought she concern herself when injuries – even life-threatening ones – could be patched up in a matter of seconds? A douse of the restorative spell, and skin, muscle and bone would knit themselves back together without a blemish to show for the damage they had sustained.

As expected, this led to her forgoing caution in combat. For all that she berated Snow for his recklessness, she wasn’t much better. No, she did not deliberately seek trouble – that kind of idiocy favoured the less-disciplined – but neither did she bother with other, more diplomatic solutions should trouble find her. At any hint of danger, she would leap into action, gunblade drawn and flashing with the promise of violence. Interposing herself between enemy and comrade – especially if said comrade was _Hope_ – also became a habit of hers, resulting in more bodily grievances than normal person ought to survive.

Therefore, when the crystals appeared on her skin, Lightning met the incident with grim acceptance. If there was one thing about her transformation she understood, it was that her human cells were dying and being replaced by Cie’th crystals. She could feel herself undergoing the change – each round of the injury-repair cycle would bring about a surge in power, a corresponding loss of her humanity. Eventually, she would reach the point where she was more crystal than human, and the shell that comprised her human appearance would crack open to reveal the monster within.

That point, as it transpired, was now.

She toppled face-first onto the ground, pain and exhaustion robbing her of the ability to stay upright. It was done: their scouting party of three – she, Sazh and Vanille – had managed to survive the Uridimmu ambush.

Upon entering the Archylte Steppe, she had felt that prickle between her shoulder blades: a keen, unshakable awareness that something was following them. Indeed, no more than five minutes had passed before the pack of wolf-beasts descended upon them, silver eyes gleaming with bloodlust and saliva dripping from their many-fanged jaws.

The ensuing battle was brutal. Handicapped by their ranged weapons and the close combat tactics of their assailants, Sazh and Vanille had to rely on Lightning’s protection in order to fight effectively. So she’d provoked, danced between and endured blows from the Uridimmu, buying time as her teammates’ bullets and elemental spells hailed from the sides and felled their enemies one by one.

Of course, playing sentinel had rather unpleasant downsides.

The adrenaline rush that had accompanied the battle now began to subside, jagged shards of pain taking its place. Had Lightning not been otherwise conditioned, she’d be howling in agony. Her left arm hung like a dead weight at her side, the shoulder clearly dislocated, and her back bore gouges from where the Uridimmu’s foot-long claws had ripped through fabric and into flesh. Light-headedness from blood loss completed the experience. Invincible l’Cie or no, she needed medical attention straightaway.

“Lightning?” she identified the hushed, pitying voice as Vanille’s. “Oh, _Light_ …”

There was a rustling of grass as the Oerban girl settled beside her. Tentative fingers peeled the epaulet away from her injured shoulder, and she felt a brief tingle of magic.

“Sazh?” Vanille called out.

Lightning heard the footfalls of approaching boots. “Right here,” a man’s voice, low and gruff with middling age, answered.

“She’s dislocated her shoulder. Can you—?”

Behind her, Lightning imagined Sazh giving a nod. There was more rustling, and a large, warm presence settled on her other side. A gloved hand closed around her left bicep, another grasping her opposite shoulder.

“Alright, soldier girl, brace yourself. This is gonna sting some.”

He was not remiss in his description. Pain, white-hot and blinding, consumed her as the joint was wrenched back into its socket. She ground her teeth to stifle the accompanying cry. Years of military training had taught her not to bite down on her tongue, but it was a near thing. To her relief, Vanille’s Cure spells dampened the pain in the next instant, restoring the damaged ligaments and drawing a shaky sigh from her.

The frayed edges of her vest were pulled apart next – she didn’t want to contemplate the mending _that_ would require – exposing her slash wounds to the cool air. Her muscles seized up involuntarily – god, it stung like _hell_. They seized up still more when the necessary disinfectant was poured onto her back. Somehow, through the violent, fiery prickling, she managed to make out Vanille’s apologies and Sazh’s muttered attempts at comfort. Again, the pain receded as healing magic flooded into her body, coaxing new flesh to grow and close over the wounds. Soothed by the magic’s gentle warmth, she opened her mouth to offer her gratitude—

Then Vanille gasped.

Were she not in full possession of her impulses, she would have leapt up and undid all of Vanille’s handiwork. As it were, she forced her limbs to lie still, directing her command to her vocal chords instead.

“What is it?”

“It’s – it’s n-nothing!” the Oerban girl spluttered. “It’s nothing, alright?”

“Vanille.” A reprimand from Sazh.

“I didn’t—! It’s not supposed to turn out like this—” Vanille choked, dissolving into inarticulate whimpers.

“Sazh, what _is_ wrong?”

The former pilot sighed. When he spoke, his words were careful, measured. “It’s not looking pretty, Lightning.”

She racked her brain for the most logical conclusion. “The wounds aren’t healing properly?”

“S’not that.” He gave another sigh, the sound quickly lost amidst Vanille’s whimpers. “Maybe you oughta check it out for yourself.”

Impatient, yet filled with dread at the same time, Lightning levered herself up into a sitting position and twisted her arm around, reaching for the newly repaired wounds on her back. The hard, scaly bumps that met her fingertips made her freeze in alarm. Disbelieving, she ran her fingers across the patch of _not_ -skin over and over again. Prodded it, poked it, searched around and beneath it for any traces of the smooth, supple flesh she had been accustomed to for all her life. But as the seconds ticked by and proved her search increasingly futile, an idea took root in her mind and solidified into cold, hard certainty.

Yes, her wounds had healed over. With _crystal_.

Lightning brought her arm back and let it fall into her lap with a dull thud. So this was it. Her fears – buried under the combined weight of frustration at their ever-worsening circumstances and stubborn resolve to reunite with Serah – were at last coming to be realised. The mental decline was already well on its way; all that remained was for the physical transformation to catch up and strip away the remaining dregs of her humanity.

She was turning into Cie’th. They all were. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

As if to voice their triumph, the voices in her head – having evolved into a near-constant background hubbub, now – roared. She couldn’t contain the resulting flinch, prompting Sazh to cast her a sympathetic grimace and Vanille to burst into tears.

“Lightning, I’m sorry!” The Oerban girl hunched over, pressing her face into her hands. “I’m so s-sorry! I never meant for any of this to happen…”

Taken aback by the younger female’s distress, Lightning could do little but call out her name in reply. “Vanille…”

But it only made Vanille cry harder. “It’s all my fault, I k-know it is!” she wailed, her breath coming in broken gasps. “If I hadn’t messed things up on Cocoon, you wouldn’t have been Purged and – and t-turned into l’Cie and—”

“Vanille,” overrode Sazh in a firm tone, “listen to me. None of us meant for this to happen, alright?”

Hiccupping, the Oerban girl raised her head. Large, watery eyes peered through the gaps between her fingers. “B-But I—”

Sazh clapped a hand on Vanille’s shoulder, putting an immediate halt to the girl’s half-spoken protest. “No buts. We can’t keep worrying about what happened in the past; we need to concentrate on the ‘now’.” He met Lightning’s gaze in a quick glance before turning back to Vanille. “I guess that means we’ll just have to get to your village quicker, find our answers.”

“Okay.” Vanille sniffed, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. “Okay, Sazh. We'll do this. We'll go to Oerba.”

He patted her on the back. “There’s a good girl.” Satisfied that Vanille’s hysteria had subsided, he returned his attention to Lightning. “Y’know soldier, maybe you’re overdoing it,” he said quietly. “Take it easy for a bit, alright?”

She looked away from him, onto the endless plains and the equally endless trials they would bring. “I – _we_ – can’t afford to,” she replied, voice hard. Rising to her feet in one decisive motion, she wiped her bloodstained gunblade on the grass before switching it into gun-form and holstering it. “Time’s running out.”


End file.
